Dauntless by Tamara Leigh
Epilogue
Castle D’Argent upon Valeur
Spring, The Year of Our Lord 1097
There the story of your grandparents first told in full to your uncle, Dougray, following his loss of an arm during the conquering of England,” Godfroi said, “next your uncle, Theriot, following the loss of his eyesight during King William’s harrying of the North that put end to English resistance.” He looked from the one seated in the chair drawn near the bed to the woman nestled against his side.
Robine’s eyes remained closed, but as if feeling his gaze, she smiled to let him know she remained present.
Swallowing against an ever-tightening throat, he returned his regard to the formidable warrior of dark silvered hair who had attained his twenty-fifth year. “Your grandmother’s story and mine is one of real love like I believe you may find again when your grieving is done and heart as healed as possible.”
Eyes moist, Guarin’s eldest son glanced at the infant he held. “I loved her. After all these months, it still seems a bad dream. She was so strong and vibrant, just like Lady Vilda.”
He spoke of his mother-in-law, the Saxon widow who, following Duke William’s conquering of England in 1066, was among the resistance who held the Isle of Ely in the hope of unseating the Norman who became king. The same as all other uprisings, that last great hope had died. Vilda might have as well, but having earned William’s respect, she was pardoned and made an agreeable marriage with a Norman of note to Godfroi and Robine—Sir Guy Torquay, Dougray’s friend and cousin by way of Michel Roche.
“So easily she birthed Drogo and quickly recovered,” Abelard continued, “it seemed unlikely I would lose her ere her time. But then for fever to take her two months later…” He growled. “How is it mostly God makes sense, then—of a sudden—none at all?”
Godfroi felt Robine’s hand tighten on his forearm. Knowing she sought to comfort him so he could do the same for their grandson, he said, “Amid great loss and abundant blessings, I believe my faith is strong, but many times I have asked the same—and not only when I lost the ability to walk.”
Recalling further deterioration of his legs in his middle years that rendered crutches viable for short distances only, he harked back to his man, Olivier, who had made Godfroi’s greater loss of self-reliance tolerable. The chevalier having determined another would better serve as captain of the guard, he had come alongside his lord, not only aiding with his clothing and grooming but using his size and strength to convey him wherever needed.
“Grandsire?” Abelard prompted.
Missing the friend lost to him these ten years, Godfroi smiled apologetically. “The older this mind grows, the more it is given to taking the long way around a conversation,” he said, then continued, “Of late, I also struggle to make sense of God, shaking my head at Him for calling your grandmother home ahead of me, though I know it is ungrateful for one who has passed four score years and whose wife is not far behind.”
Feeling Robine’s chest slowly expand, he paused, and when more breaths followed, returned to Abelard. “I am aware my loss does not compare to yours since my life with your grandmother has been far more full than empty, but I encourage you to remain faithful to the Lord, praying He answers the petitions laid before him and in a better way than you can imagine.”
“I try, Grandsire, but I want sense made of it now.”
Godfroi looked to the babe. “Sense there, Abelard—a healthy son. Sense in him being formed from love rather than a marriage whose foundation began and ended with obligation. Sense in the warrior before me who has survived battles, been lauded for his prowess, and remains whole. Sense in the good health of your parents and siblings.” He jutted his chin at the curtains beyond which numerous family members sat at meal this third day since they began arriving in answer to his request Robine see them one last time. “Others of our family are not without losses, and some are as grave as yours, but they rise above them and are stronger to face the next trial.”
Abelard turned thoughtful, finally said, “I know you are right, and more certain I am now I have heard your tale. I thank you for sharing it.”
“It is your legacy, Abelard. Now, no more talk about it being better not to love one’s wife lest she is lost to you, hmm?”
“I shall aspire not to speak nor think it,” the young man was honest, and when once more Robine squeezed her husband’s arm, Godfroi accepted Abelard’s grief was too recent to gain more from him. Regardless of what he wanted for his grandson, it could not be forced.
Slowly leaning to the side so he not discomfort his wife nor the rat catcher curled against her back who was of a disposition that suggested descent from Cat, he set a hand on the young man’s arm. “We are pleased you crossed the narrow sea to be with us.”
“Forgive me for not visiting more,” Abelard said. “As Father prepares me to take charge of training warriors ahead of lording his English lands, there are never enough days in a week, let alone a month and year.”
Godfroi resettled against the pillows. “As he and your Saxon mother have more than earned their rest, we would deny them none of it.”
Abelard looked to Robine. “We are glad you summoned us home.”
“Home,” she breathed, and Godfroi knew it made her happy the D’Argents who had settled in England following their duke’s conquest, as well as the children forged with the conquered, yet embraced Valeur. It was the same for the son born after Dougray. Though Theriot had made a life and family in Scotland, he also adhered to the belief that first, in between, and in the end, he was a D’Argent.
“Oui, Grandmother, home.” Abelard said. “Here your children, grandchildren, and this great-grandchild.”
Her mouth curved slightly.
Pain lancing his breast, Godfroi thought, Soon she will be gone from us. God willing, I will not be long in joining her in our new home.
Though there were things that yet required his attention in this home, not many. All that was of greatest import, Cyr had in hand, as trained into him since King William wed Guarin to the daughter of one of England’s renowned trainers of warriors and granted him lordship of the lady’s lands. The second-born, who had not expected to be Baron of Valeur barring his eldest brother’s death, had held that title since Godfroi ceded it twenty years ago—and done so exceedingly well as would his son after him.
With what sounded a grunt of annoyance, the babe opened his eyes.
“He will want feeding soon,” Abelard said. “Hopefully, the nursemaid is rested since he is a voracious one.”
“As your father bemoaned about you,” Godfroi reminded.
That roused a chuckle. “He and Mother tell ever I sought to take more than my share. For that, my sister stands two hands below me.”
His twin, Wynflaed, a woman of sharp intelligence who, though she had not wanted for suitors, was devoted to the Lord and seemed destined to become Abbess of Lillefarne upon her sire’s English barony. Godfroi loved his granddaughter’s laughter that sounded like Robine’s in her younger years and that of Nicola born after Theriot. Despite the reason for this visit, he wished her expression of joy was not absent. Certes, Robine missed it as well.
He nodded at the infant. “Drogo is a fine son. For now, devote yourself to seeing him raised well to honor the D’Argents of your sire, the Wulfriths of your mother, and the Torquays of your wife’s family. In the Lord’s time, He will reveal his plans for this husband lacking a wife and son a mother.”
“My sire tells the same. You taught him well, Grandsire.”
“As Johannes taught me.”
Abelard frowned. “What became of him?”
“Hugh confronted him at his cave. Blessedly, as our mother entreated, he did not unsheathe his sword nor turn hands into fists. Though I doubt he forgave our uncle, they made some kind of peace, and my brother did not overly grieve me nor our mother for showing Johannes grace.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
Godfroi smiled. “Once I visited Johannes, and twice he accepted invitations to return to Castle D’Argent. The last time he made the journey was shortly after Guarin began training for sword and spurs. As it was obvious my uncle neared his end, I asked him to remain so his soul ascend from Valeur and body find its final rest here. He declined, and Hugh was in accord, but the Lord sided with me. Shortly before Johannes was to depart, he became bedridden and soon passed.”
“Then he is buried here.”
“Not far from my father.”
“Certes, Hugh was not well with that. What of your mother?”
Remembering the woman he and Robine had ensured spent the remainder of her life enjoying her children and grandchildren, Godfroi’s ache enlarged. They had buried Lady Maëlys a year before Duke William slew England’s king in the fierce battle that gained him the crown, the only good of her passing that she did not suffer the death of Hugh who fought alongside the son and nephews he had trained into warriors.
Now feeling the loss of his brother who had taken his place as promised and earned Valeur renown for training warriors, Godfroi said, “Lady Maëlys also wished Johannes buried with family. I am sorry you did not know her, Abelard, though I believe you became fairly acquainted with her by way of your grandmother.”
Godfroi looked to Robine, and though he was gifted with a smile, it was more fleeting than the last. Well before nightfall, the Lord would gather her near.
When Drogo began to cry, Godfroi said, “See your son fed, then tell all to enter here.”
Abelard rose to a height as great as his sire’s and, leaning down, kissed Robine’s brow. “We shall return soon, Grandmother.”
“Soon,” she whispered.
When they were alone, Godfroi lifted her chin and studied the pale of her face whose every line he loved, especially the deepest around her mouth that evidenced all the smiles and laughter that came before and after the pain that sought to ruin them. “Such a beautiful life I have had with you, my love. Naught could be better than this.”
Her lids rose, allowing him to look upon the grey of her eyes. “Naught but heaven,” she rasped.
Tears burning, he said, “You are right. A more beautiful life we will have there.”
She drew breath. “Remain with our loved ones as long as you can. No matter what day you depart this life…I will be waiting for you in the next. Until then…stay dauntless.”
He kissed her mouth and, tasting tears on their lips, drew back. “Rest now, Robine. Soon comes the family we made.”
Feeling half present, Robine closed her eyes and sank into the comfort of her husband holding her, then came memories made in this chamber—from their wedding night that saw her returned to her sire’s home and immediately retrieved…to the birthing of four sons and a daughter…to the loving here until months past when she began weakening and all appetites diminished. And—oh!—the memories made in the hay loft…
She would not have believed she slept if not for flashes of a visit with the storyteller and, when she opened her eyes, that spring’s light entering through the upper windows had waned.
Meeting Godfroi’s gaze, she said, “They are here.”
“They are.” He eased her higher and shifted her head from his chest to his shoulder. “Look, my love.”
She moved her gaze to curtains drawn back to reveal the hall—rather, what could be seen of it beyond the press of bodies. Not only was her family here, but all her friends and sisters among the castle folk. And they were many.
“Here those who love their lady,” Godfroi said.
“As I…love them.”
Though it had taken years for the scandal to lose its gossip-worthy luster, returning Robine to favor with some of the nobility, she had remained as true to the faithful of her household as they to her. Outside of Castle D’Argent, there was only one with whom she became devoted—her brother’s wife who had brooked no misbehavior from Delphine, allowing the woman to remain with her children until adulthood.
The heir to Solitaire who had fostered here and years ago succeeded his sire, had arrived on the day past and not departed. If not for difficulty attaining satisfactory breath and greater lightness of body that made her think she was no more than a quarter present, she would have offered him a smile. But she saved it for those at the fore whose dark hair was now heavily silvered.
There Guarin with his warrior bride, Hawisa, on his hip a Wulfrith dagger set with a red gem. And among Robine’s grandchildren gathered behind, was that their adopted son, Eberhard, with his Ardith? It was.
There Cyr with his spirited Aelfled, on his hip a D’Argent dagger set with a blue gem.
There Nicola with her mighty Vitalis.
There Maël with his wondrous Mercia. And over her nephew’s shoulder, his sister from Chanson’s second marriage to Fulbert whom Godfroi knew to be the novice who delivered prayer scrolls and supplies to Johannes.
There Theriot with his Scottish Marguerite.
But where was…?
Ah, how could she forget the golden-haired one was now as silvered as his dark-haired brothers—and almost as silvered as his mother? Near Theriot stood Dougray who had struggled with illegitimacy despite being well loved by his family, at his side his precious Em who made possible his acquaintance with Michel Roche who passed his English lands to his only son—and in his later years wed Pilar.
She swallowed. “Oh my love, we are many.”
“That we are,” Godfroi rasped, breath warming her cool brow.
Staring into his moist eyes, she knew his anguish was terrible for how near he was to passing her out of his arms and into those of the Lord.
Possessing one more smile, she gave it to him. “I am all wonder how we became so many—children…grandchildren…great-grandchildren…nephews…nieces…friends…”
He touched his lips to hers, breathed in her last exhale. “It all began with my Robine. In a hay loft. Naught better than this, beloved.”
Lady Robine D’Argent
Gifted to her Family in the Year of Our Lord 1022
Returned to God Spring 1097
Beloved Daughter, Sister, Wife, Mother, Aunt, Friend
Her and No Other
Baron Godfroi D’Argent
Created in His Image in the Year of Our Lord 1014
Returned to God and his Wife Autumn 1097
Beloved Son, Brother, Husband, Father, Uncle, Friend
Him and No Other
À BIENTÔT
* * *
Dear Reader,
Thank you for joining me in the age of conquest. If you enjoyed the eighth and final tale in this series, I would appreciate a review of DAUNTLESS at your online retailer. A few sentences is lovely. A few more, lovelier.
What’s next? The 14th-century Age of Honor series featuring…more Wulfriths! Watch for VALOROUS: Book One releasing Winter 2021/2022. An excerpt is included here ~ Tamara